The Shit That Went Down
by GlowingPatchwork
Summary: [Each chapter is from a different character's perspective. Collabs are welcomed/encouraged!] The type of cliches you read in bad horror stories have actually come to life. Society has crumbled, leaving a select few of non-fuckwits to handle themselves however they can; with a pinch of dry humor and copious amounts of luck. If only zombies craved doritos or some shit instead.


It had been just over 6 days since the invasion broke out. The kind of clichéd scenario you'd find in a horror story; something horrifying, something unsafe, something that ripped families apart and killed at will.

However clichéd it was, it was true. The undead, in all their slobbering, grotesque glory, had indeed peeled themselves up from their wooden confinements and crawled up to the surface, their thoughtless senses starving for some source of food. Damn it, why did they have to crave humans, of all things?! There was so much nicer stuff around, like… uh, pasta. And chips. Shit, even _bread _is better than becoming a fucking accidental cannibal.

At the moment, we're looking at this through the perspective of a young boy, though he's not fond of being known as such. His crimson eyes had silently witnessed society falling into a brief, flailing panic, then gradually being ripped apart by monsters. He didn't really think they looked all that strong, though. Surely they didn't have the cognitive functions to defend themselves, so why not just whack and run from them? Perhaps this was just a naïve way of thinking. But… still, he'd managed to run just fine himself.

Dave didn't know where his brother was, so to speak. He knew he was safe; they'd stuck together through the whole flailing/panicky state, as family does, but he'd been gone for a while now and the younger was starting to grow concerned. Food was pretty easy to find, right? And the man had been gone over 7 hours.

In that time, not much was achieved. Dave wiped down his anime-esque katana with some bloodstained rag (obviously not with the bloody part, mind,) cleaned his shades multiple times, and made up a million scenarios about his biological father's wellbeing in the past lonely hours. He was currently sat up against the wall, his legs splayed out in front of him and his arms laying limply at his side. Exciting, I know.

He observed a gash on his right bicep; something he'd gotten not from a… well, he supposed it was considered a zombie, but instead from a pretty merciless bit of broken glass he'd tripped into. He was lucky the damned shards didn't stab right through; that shit would get infected, and then _he _probably would, too. Not to mention that the joint effort of he and his bro trying to bandage it with shirt-strips was pretty pathetic.

Dave wondered about his friends, too. The internet and electricity were both still functioning, (though he supposed that they'd shut off in a couple days because everyone operating them was fucking _dead,) _rather, he'd lost his phone in his panic to escape. And, obviously, he didn't quite come up with the ironically brilliant idea to just lug his whole computer through the streets. The mental image almost made him chuckle.

He figured Jade would be fine, as, through all her batshit insane thought processes she did seem to be pretty capable. John… John was probably alright. He had that weird-ass pogo hammer thing that he'd self-constructed with god knows what tools. And Rose, while being fairly pretentious, could handle herself alright (not to mention that she was a good sprinter,) so he was hoping she'd managed to escape the hoard. But these were nothing but assumptions. He'd pay money to know that they were all okay.

Dave himself was currently holed up in an attic somewhere. He'd read in some apocalypse survival guide that you should always pick the higher ground over the lower (AKA, a basement,) because you can always hurl yourself out of windows like the useless piece of shit you are from high places. Of course, he didn't really plan to partake in that particular adventure for the time being, but shit, it was a funny thought.

Anyway, the attic wasn't really anything remarkable. Couple dusty boxes shoved up in one corner, some beams protruding from the ceiling which looked worryingly brittle, spiders and other such excessively-legged insects skittering across the floors around, and a damp wooden floor that smelled awful. It was fucking awful, truth be told, but also a safe place to be so Dave kept his mouth shut.

"Goddamn," he grumbled, scowling at the wall at the thought of dampness. "I'm thirsty."


End file.
